Little Fuzzballs, Livin Large

As we all know, young of any species tend to grow. Since I'm honorary grandmother to three kittens, it's my responsibility to make sure that they have room to grow. As you probably recall, I had arrangements made to keep the furry ones out of trouble:



But, since they're getting bigger:


They needed different arrangements:



No, really. They're getting big. Like, Pixel Mamma has to hold on to them to give them a bath:



And of course, after a few moments of panic at their being out of the box, once I'd re-arranged things so that she could put them back in the box and still have room, she promptly stretched out on the sheet and made herself comfortable as far from the box as she could get. Now, if she follows the pattern she had the last time, she'll make sure they're "in" the box whenever she's not in the room, until they're big enough to run around on their own anyway, and make sure they stay on the sheet the rest of the time. She's very good about the whole "den" thing, until they start getting really mobile, and then she starts demanding babysitting.

I didn't *do* it! I just told them how....

Every one of the girls on my feed crew were dosed with estrogen-laced crack, tonight, I swear. They were all hyper and laughing and being very "girl."

Of course, when I heard of their plan for the evening, going to Wally World, filling a cart with random items, and dropping them into other people's carts, I had to speak up, in the name of maturity, to stop this juvenile delinquency. I was, after all, the responsible adult there.

Yeah, right. If you believe that one, I've got some excellent ocean front property I want to discuss with you.

My contribution was minimal, actually, I merely told them that for maximum amusement value the items should be entirely off the wall. Pregnancy test for an eighty year old woman. Douche for the nice clean cut young man buying all of the salad components. A box of condoms and the largest tub of vaseline available there for the mother with three kids in tow, preferably with one of them being fourteen or older, to open up the debate on whom, exactly, put the items into the cart.

Of course, for real entertainment on those sorts of missions, you have to scratch the bar code on the box or the sticker, so that it won't read properly. Otherwise, the people might get all the way home and wonder why they bought a tub of whipped cream, a jar of pickled okra, and six bottles of Astro Glide, which thought is amusing but deprives you of your god-given right to witness said confusion.

Up Since Five

Legs ache... Knee's tweaked.... Ears are frozen...

But, the horse that coliced yesterday, that the vet sent back with only instructions not to feed or water him today, that we found down in a stall and not breathing at feed crew this morning, is up and on his way to the vet's again.

Even a weak horse is stronger than a person, especially when the person is trying to rock them up when they've gone down while walking, and the horse is flinging himself back down. And it kind of hurts when they knock you down where you're bracing against their shoulder to keep them from flopping sideways, and land on your leg. Thank goodness for my work boots, or my foot would probably hurt more than it does.

But, he's in the trailer, and on his way. Hopefully the vet will be able to fix him up.

Meanwhile, I'm not in good graces on the second floor of the boy's dorms. They kind of frown on it when you spend five minutes solid banging on a door without getting an answer.

Thankfully, some people answer their phones, and another truck and trailer was found.

I don't think I'll ever make nice with the dude down the hall from the room I was banging on, though, he cussed at me and I flipped him the bird.